The Song of a Violin
by Maze-zen
Summary: Christine finds Erik in a compromising position. Inspired by the artwork of Stamina Overlook and written for her birthday.


**Sadly, I cannot link to the illustration that inspired me to write this because it's very NSFW. But check out more of her beautiful art at .com **

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It wasn't often Christine ventured into the catacombs on her own, especially not in the middle of the night. But she wouldn't be able to sleep, not after her triumph on stage and not when she worried about her teacher.

To her teacher's disappointment she had been cast as Pamina in the newest staging of The Magic Flute, but she had put her all into the role and it had paid off; the audience had seemed to cheer more for her than for La Carlotta as the Queen of the Night, much to the diva's chagrin.

Christine had expected her teacher ready in her dressing room to offer his congratulations on her performance as he usually did, so she'd requested no visitors, even not Raoul.

She had hoped for Erik's praise.

But he didn't come. She'd waited patiently for an hour, then called out to him, but he wasn't there. Or if he was, he was playing a prank on her. She'd searched the whole dressing room for a note of some sort, but there was nothing.

At first she was disappointed and a little angry with him. He'd promised to be there after all; even at the smallest rehearsals he was there, and she had sensed him tonight in Box Five.

Her anger quickly turned to worry because her teacher always kept his promises and he was often the first to arrive in her dressing room; his passages in the walls were quicker than the halls when filled with people. If he hadn't come, something must've happened that kept him from being with her to celebrate.

She had to find him.

Changing quickly from her costume to her day clothes, she left her dressing room in a hurry, avoiding every person that tried to stop and congratulate her. She excused herself with the claim of a family emergency; it wasn't far off. Erik was the closest thing she had to a family, other than Mama Valerius, but she was too frail to see her performances. Only Erik was there. And of course, Raoul often was as well. But he hadn't shaped her voice and seen her grow from a timid mouse in the back of the chorus to the second soprano at the Opera Populaire!

It was Erik she needed to see right now; hopefully he would be alright.

She took out the heavy key to the Rue Scribe entrance from the inner pocket in her cloak; she didn't dare find her way through the tunnels from her dressing room mirror, so she took the route she'd easily memorized from this entrance. It was faster as well.

It wasn't until she heard the familiar sound of his violin as she neared the house on the lake that she noticed she'd been holding her breath on and off on her way down. Finally, she felt at ease.

The anger returned instead. Why wasn't he there for her for her triumph? How dare he scare her like that? And why was the music he played so gay and lively? It was all so unlike him! The melody felt like a whirlwind blowing through the catacombs, sweeping Christine with it, and she wasn't sure if she should resist it or not.

It was even more vigorous when she reached the house; as she knocked on the door, she felt certain that he couldn't hear her for the music, despite his unnaturally perceptive hearing, and after three rounds of knocking, she gave up and carefully entered the house.

Erik didn't like unannounced guests, but she had tried to alert him without luck. She was not to blame for any of this! She'd been worried for his health.

Something in her told her to turn and go back now she knew that he was fine, but she felt the need to tell him off for making her worry, so she followed the violin's calling further into the house.

She'd expected to find him in the music room and she supposed it was where he came from. But he flew past her in the hallway - not even acknowledging her presence - leaving her frozen to the spot by what she'd seen.

Now, he was playing through the sitting room, inappropriately undressed. Bare, in fact, as the day he was born. Except his body was very much that of a man.

He was extremely pale and skeletal thin; it wasn't much of a surprise to her, as she had seen him without his tailcoat before and even his lower arms a few times when he rolled up his sleeves. She was also aware that he had many scars from his past. But none of these facts prepared her for the sight of his white gaunt body, covered with scars of various colors and sizes, or for the way his sinewy muscles stood out so very clearly, as if his body was built from muscle alone.

She perceived all these things, but her eyes instantly fell upon the large, swollen tower that stood between his legs.

She'd never seen a male organ look like that. As a child she had been exposed to her father naked, and it occurred in the opera house that it was necessary to change clothes in front of the men where she'd caught glimpses; none of them had looked like what she saw now.

However, she was enlightened enough to know why it was engorged, suddenly standing so powerful and intimidating, compared to the ridiculousness of a flaccid manhood; she had heard enough gossip between the ballet rats about a man's arousal. But never had she imagined how enticing it could appear with its bulging veins and the redness of the straining flesh.

She found that she couldn't tear her eyes away from Erik's lithe form; he danced and jumped through the sitting room, seemingly fueled by the spirited music he drew from the violin's strings. He was like possessed, his rapid fingers moving across the fingerboard as his body followed with maddening movements.

There was something majestic about it, the way he had complete control of his body like he had of the violin; like he had with her voice. He was limber and graceful, and not unpleasant to look at. Christine felt a deep heat in her lower stomach while a blush rose in her cheeks. She shouldn't be watching him prance around so obscenely, but it was impossible to look away.

He seemed to be in a trance, not sensing her presence as he usually did. She couldn't see his eyes, deep as they sat in their sockets, but she was sure he kept them closed. His thin lips were parted and a grimace not unlike a smile graced them.

She was in awe of him as he danced around the room. One moment he was pirouetting through the room, the next he was on the floor, supported only by the top of his head and one bent knee - the other leg in the air! Then he jumped up and kicked at the wall with both legs.

His body was already red and bruised, but kicking the hard stone wall proved to be too much for him. There came no sound from his mouth as he fell to the ground, only a loud discordant screech from the violin. Then silence.

Christine was hesitant when she neared Erik's still body on the floor after a few moments without any movement from him. She hoped he hadn't injured himself, but she was reluctant to go near him; he was naked! Coming closer, she saw his criss-cross scarred back was moving slowly with his breathing, but he could still have broken his legs with that insane kick.

When she reached him and put a delicate hand on his shoulder, he whipped around to look at her. His eyes were large enough for her to see them; his pupils were dilated. He finally perceived her presence and was shocked to see her. "Christine? What are you doing here?" He didn't seem to be aware of his state of undress as he sat upright, unashamed of his bare form.

"You didn't come to see me after my performance," she mumbled absentmindedly. She took the opportunity to look him over - to see if he was injured, of course - and noticed some odd protrusions around the veins on his arms. It took her several moments to understand what they were.

"I felt unwell," Erik replied, gouging her closely, "I had to, ah, return to my home." Suddenly, he became aware of his nakedness, and he skirted up and against the wall, trying to hide as much of himself as possible. "Christine, look away, I'm indecent!"

She rolled her eyes at him, though it was impolite; he'd been bare in front for her for ten minutes by now.

She grabbed his right arm, quite surprised by the fact that he wasn't strong enough at the moment to resist her. While tracing the damaged veins, she found his eyes and asked him directly: "Are you on opiates?" He nodded uneasily. "Can you live without them?" This time he shook his head. Christine leaned down and kissed the arm she held, then followed a vein with her lips down to his hand where she kissed each calloused finger tip.

When she looked up at him again, tears were trailing down his sagging, hollow cheeks. She smiled at him with kindness and compassion.

"For me, will you try?"


End file.
